“So, we can agree that the Gravemother doesn’t care who owns Stilgarth or whether it might get torn down,” Garrett said. He and Zane were headed toward Tate’s Diner, where the crew was meeting up. Lincoln told them that Matt had already reviewed their findings from that night and was ready to discuss them. “That’s one theory out, anyway. So maybe the only way for the Gravemother to find peace is to get justice for her?”
“We have no reason to doubt that she was responsible for the disappearances of those three children,” Zane pointed out. “Justice would mean making sure she gets punished for it, but I don’t think she wants that.”
“Some people think there’s more to that. I didn’t tell you the alternate theories about the legend, right? Like there were rumors that Harrison Traithe wasn’t very good to his wife and that he hated kids. It was in a couple of newspaper editorials.”
“What, in the Solitude Gazette?”
Garrett groaned. “Not in today’s newspaper. I read them in old microfilms at the library. He left town soon after Ginevra died. People were scared to talk about him before that, but everyone really let their opinions be known after he’d gone. So a bunch of us think maybe he had something to do with it. He had more of a motive to get rid of the kids than Ginevra did.”
It had been two days since they’d explored Stilgarth Manor with Garrett’s ghost crew. No one else had seen the Gravemother. Even Lincoln had suggested the sighting could have been a trick of the light or a shared hallucination, pointing out that Zane and Garrett had been in the room within sight of the others the whole time, and they hadn’t found anything in the recordings. Zane had expected not to be believed, but he couldn’t ignore his disappointment.
The members of Supernatural Anonymous had crammed themselves in the booths at the back of the diner, and Lincoln waved cheerfully at them as they entered.
“You gotta get the special, Zane,” Lincoln said as Zane and Garrett found seats. “Their blueberry pancakes are great. Tate’s famous for that. And my treat, to celebrate getting some pretty good stuff on audio and video! You tell ’em, Matt.”
Grinning, Matt pointed at one of the laptops before him. “Our recorders picked up voices. It’s the most we’ve been able to get out of that old house in months. Listen.”
He pushed a button, and a strange keening sound rent the air. Emmy, it whispered, and a chill ran down Zane’s back.
“Who’s Emmy?” Chris asked.
“I thought you were skeptical about this,” Zane said.
“And I still am, but I’m also interested in the history side of things. I went through all the documents I could find on the Traithes, and as far as I know, no one named Emmy has ever been a part of the family tree—not during the years Ginevra and Harrison Traithe were alive, at least. Likely that this Emmy might have been someone they knew. Someone important enough to the Traithes that the Gravemother would use her name even after her death. The more logical explanation, of course, would be that there is no such thing as spirits and we’re all just experiencing pareidolia, which means that we hear only what we want to hear. Like seeing faces in random patterns that aren’t there.”
“Chris,” Lincoln said. “Have another plate of blueberry pancakes and another helping of please shut your trap.” He moved his mouse and clicked on something on his computer screen. “And if you think this is all a figment of our imaginations, then what do you say to this?”
He showed them an image of a figure in white standing at the end of the hallway on the ground floor. There were shadows where its face should have been, enough to suggest that it had features—except its mouth seemed to trail off into darkness, nothing of its lower jaw visible.
“There wasn’t anyone in the hall when we took that picture,” Lincoln said triumphantly. “There’s no other explanation. This has to be the Gravemother.”
“Or some speck of dust on the camera magnified so much that you think it’s the Gravemother,” Chris returned. “But I think I’m going to just sit here and eat my free pancakes instead.”
“Well, what about the spirit box, huh? You really think it could up and shatter just like that? Dad was mad at first, but then he got really excited when he saw the video of it getting snatched out of Jen’s hands. He thinks we might have something there.”
“Why do you think the box got smashed like that?” Jen asked, looking up from her own laptop.
“Anger?” Matt offered. “I’m not sure how Garrett reading a deed would make the Gravemother lash out, but maybe she just doesn’t like the idea of the house being owned by someone else.”
“I know you don’t have a picture of Ginevra Traithe,” Zane said, struck by a sudden idea, “but do you have one of Harrison Traithe?”
Chris grinned through his mouthful of pancakes. “Sure. You can find it in a collection in the local library, which I’ve gone through enough times to know you won’t find much. Mostly boring stuff like birth and marriage records, nothing really linked to the Gravemother. I finally found a sketch of Harrison Traithe, Garrett, since you wanted to know what he looked like. It’s not a very good illustration, though, because apparently everyone in the 1700s learned to draw from the only crappy art teacher to have ever existed in the state back then.”
The man in the crude drawing was stocky, had side whiskers, and wore a wide-brimmed hat. His nose was large, and he had a small scar on the side of his cheek. Chris was right when he’d said it wasn’t a very good drawing, but Zane had no doubt at all that it was the same man he’d seen arguing with Ginevra Traithe in his vision. From the look on Garrett’s face, he thought the same thing.
Lincoln looked at Zane. “Sooo, I have some good news and some bad news if you want to know more about your ancestors. The good news is that the town’s historian, Mr. Nathaniel Moss, is a descendant of a family that lived in town when the Traithes were here, and he has a journal from one of his ancestors that talks a bit about them. I’ve taken a look myself—not as much info about the ghost per se, but it does talk about the disappearances. And it’ll give you good insight on what life was like back then.”
“And what’s the bad news?” Zane asked.
Garrett sighed heavily and put down his fork. “I can tell you what the bad news is,” he said. “You remember the night you stayed for dinner, when Mom got a call from someone named Linda?”
Zane’s heart dropped. “You mean—”
“Yeah. Nathaniel Moss is dead.”
• • •
Zane didn’t know how involved Garrett was in the embalming side of the family business, but Garrett supplied him with the answer soon after they left Tate’s Diner.
“I help Mom with the washing, and then sit around and watch her make the body look nice for the viewing,” he explained. “I can’t stay inside the room when she actually uses the embalming liquid, though. Gotta wait until I have my own license for that, so Mom said she’ll have to teach me when I’m older. Mostly I help Dad with the reception and with the funeral aesthetics, but I try to stay with Mom when she’s taking care of a customer.”
“And you want to do it?” Zane asked, the idea alien to him.
Garrett grinned. “I do. I like the work. Dad always told me that even if this was just a job to us, we have to remember that people trust us enough to bring their loved ones here, so we should treat them like family, too. We see them during the worst day of their lives, and they’re paying us for something they never wanted to buy in the first place. It’s always good to be kind and to let them know they’re not alone.”
Zane stared at him.
Garrett coughed, suddenly embarrassed. “Look, we just take this seriously, all right? And Mom’s gonna want some help preparing Mr. Moss’s body. He was friends with practically everyone in town before his Alzheimer’s got worse, so we’re expecting a ton of people to show up—”
“Can I help?” Zane interrupted. It was Garrett’s turn to gape at him, and he felt inclined to defend himself. “Obviously not with the, uh, work needed on Mr. Moss. But I can run errands and greet guests and stuff like that. If he’s as popular as you say, you’ll need more people, right?”
Garrett paused, looking like he wanted to say no. “All right,” he finally said, still sounding doubtful. “But don’t blame me if you get bored. It’s not as fun as most people think it is.”
Garrett was wrong, as usual. Zane did enjoy the management aspects of running a funeral home, which mostly involved helping Mr. Sevilla with the flower arrangements and other decorations as requested by the family. Garrett’s father suggested that Zane accept a small stipend for helping out—Garrett was right when he said that a lot of people would be attending the viewing—and had been so insistent that Zane reluctantly agreed.
Garrett had disappeared into the embalming area with his mother by the time Mrs. Linda Fernhilde, Mr. Moss’s daughter, had shown up to talk with Garrett’s father. The wake was to last for three days. Mr. Sevilla spent as much time talking about the wreaths and the type of coffin in which Mr. Moss was to be buried as consoling Mrs. Fernhilde, who stopped to cry every few minutes or so.
“I’m just happy he passed so peacefully in his sleep,” the woman sobbed. “And I am so overwhelmed by everyone’s kindness. He was such a force of nature in this community, and I’m glad to know he was loved.”
Zane wanted to ask her about the journal that Mr. Moss had, but wasn’t sure how to approach it without being insensitive. He should probably leave that up to Garrett. Since he didn’t seem to be needed at the moment, Zane quietly excused himself and headed off in search of the other boy. He peered through the window to the embalming room and spotted Garrett and his mother sitting beside—
—beside what looked to be Mr. Moss’s corpse.
Zane retreated in alarm. He’d never seen a dead body before, and some nervous part of him was expecting it to rise up like they did in zombie movies.
You’re not a coward, he berated himself silently, so stop acting like one.
But Mr. Moss definitely looked dead. His skin was pale and stretched tight around his face, his features sunken. His mouth was wide open, a metal brace keeping it that way, and Mrs. Sevilla was bent over him, holding something that looked like a cross between a syringe and a really huge fountain pen against his upper teeth.
Garrett caught sight of him and jogged over. He was dressed in protective gear like his mother, and the goggles and mask made him look like someone working in the ICU of a hospital rather than in a funeral parlor.
“Hey,” he said, and Zane realized the wall between them wasn’t soundproof. “Does Dad need anything?”
Zane was still staring at Mrs. Sevilla. “She’s hammering his mouth shut,” he observed weakly.
“Technically, she’s suturing it shut with a really huge needle that goes right into the gums and—” Garrett stopped, looking at Zane’s face. “So, um, sometimes the mouth gets slack and opens on its own, and most people don’t usually want to see that when viewing a body during a wake, so it’s a necessary evil. You don’t have to be here, you know. If you’re scared to watch, Dad probably needs more help—”
“I am not scared,” Zane interrupted heatedly. “I’m just not used to—what’s she doing now?”
“Sticking caps underneath his eyelids,” Garrett said matter-of-factly. “The eyes tend to open, too, though not as frequently as mouths, so we have to keep them shut because people are inclined to panic when it happens while someone’s in the coffin.”
“Garrett,” his mother chided mildly, straightening up.
Zane folded his arms and scowled. “You’re enjoying watching me squirm way too much.”
“Maybe just a little, city boy,” Garrett conceded, winking. “But you’re probably not gonna want to stick around and watch what comes next,” he added, motioning toward his mom, who picked up something that looked an awful lot like a needle . . . if needles were the size of short swords.
“You best head out, too, Garrett. I’m going to mix the formaldehyde soon. How about Zane spends the night here? It’s getting a little late. I can call up Mr. Kincaid and let him know.”
“Sure,” Zane said. That would give him and Garrett more time to plan out how to ask Mrs. Fernhilde for whatever documents Mr. Moss had.
Mrs. Sevilla beamed at them. “Garrett doesn’t usually ask anyone over, and I’m glad you’re both getting to be such good friends. I do hope your father doesn’t sell Stilgarth, Zane. Garrett would love it if you and your family chose to stay in Solitude.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. Then he sighed and headed toward the door.
“I’m not agreeing to let you sleep over just because I’m afraid of spending the night by myself,” he said defensively to Zane as he started to peel off his mask and gloves. “I just figured that we have a better chance at finding out how to give her peace if we put our heads together.”
“And I didn’t agree to sleep over because I’m scared,” Zane retorted. “The Gravemother hasn’t been targeting Emmy while I’m here, so it’s safer for her if I stay away.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
There was a sudden loud snap.
“Oh,” they heard Garrett’s mother say slowly, sounding stunned.
Zane turned to look back at her and saw Mr. Moss on the table with his mouth hanging open again. The sutures that Mrs. Sevilla had used to sew it shut had broken free, and the force of it had sent Mr. Moss’s lower jaw sinking farther down his chest than what was normal for a human mouth.
Almost like it had been dislocated.
“I’m not scared,” Garrett insisted, trembling like a leaf against the wind. “I’m not.”
Zane didn’t answer, but he was shaking, too.